The New Wolves
by doncellerespire
Summary: The year is 899 AC, the Westerosi general election is fast approaching with the radical right Westerosi National Party gaining in the polls; the North is torn over an independence movement that some say borders on terrorism; the New Valyrian Republic is encroaching on Volantis; and Daenerys Targaryen, daughter of WNP leader, Aerys, feels heat in a fossilized dragon's egg. Modern AU
1. Cat I

**A/N:** Hi everyone! This is my first attempt at a fic for the fandom, it's a Modern AU that starts out loosely following the plot of ASOIAF and will change a bit from there. It's a political drama, primarily, and will follow a broad spectrum of characters and ships. I hope you all enjoy it, and feel free to let me know what you think! (Constructive criticism is just as welcome as praise, though I do enjoy having my ego stroked)

The political system for Westeros most closely models the British system, because I'm lazy, and it fits well. There may be some differences here or there, I haven't planned this out too thoroughly. There'll be some economic stuff in here too, and my knowledge of economics is pretty rudimentary so I'm sorry if anything is off.

I haven't completely decided which ships are going to sail in this story, though I have a couple in mind I'll just put up the ones I know for certain. There isn't anything explicit yet, so for the moment I'm leaving the rating at Mature and will move it up to Explicit when it's necessary, and I'm also not entirely sure which warnings to use as I haven't completely fleshed out the plot, so I'll put a few that are on the more likely side.

 **Disclaimer:** All familiar characters, places, and plot lines belong to George R.R Martin. The new stuff belongs to me.

 **Cat**

" _According to a new poll, the Westerosi National Party has taken the lead in several prominent constituencies throughout Crownland, Reach, and southern portions of Riverland. Now boasting a six percent lead over the incumbent Revolutionary Party in national polls, it appears that the far right-wing WNP is becoming a sort of dark horse as the general election draws closer._

 _With us here today, is political analyst Tyrion Lannister. Mr. Lannister, should the WNP gain enough of a majority to form a government, who do you believe is most likely to be elected as Prime Minister?"_

" _It's practically common knowledge that the WNP worships their party leader, Aerys Targaryen. Should, Gods forbid, the constituents oust Baratheon's government in favor of WNP they would be ensuring their rule under a -"_

The news broadcast cut off suddenly, replaced with the unbearable noise that Sansa liked to call music - Margie Terrell or someone like that. Catelyn Stark held in a sigh, sealing the clingwrap around the last PB&J as she waited for the bickering to start. Sansa was nearly sixteen now, and Gods love the child, she was almost as aggravating as Jon had been two years ago when he grew out his hair and started blasting rock music.

"Sansa!" She heard Ned snap, "Did you ask if you could change the channel?"

Catelyn turned at the muffled giggle behind her to see Robb biting into an apple. She still thought it was odd that he wasn't starting school at the same time as all the others, it was even odder that in a few weeks he'd be leaving home entirely - both him and Jon, they were eighteen now.

Her son grinned, "You think she would've learned not to come between Dad and his politics by now."

"It's _boring!"_ They heard Sansa protest from the living room.

"It's important! Now give me the remote," Ned shot back, "You're supposed to be getting ready for school not listening to Margo Tynell."

" _Margaery Tyrell!"_ Sansa corrected him, and Catelyn and Robb looked at each other as they smiled. Robb shrugged as if to say, _I don't know how to handle her either._ And sauntered out of the kitchen with another crunch of his apple. A few seconds later Catelyn rolled her eyes as she heard Sansa scream.

"Don't touch my hair! I spent hours curling it!"

"You're going to miss me when I'm gone you know." There was a thud as Robb fell onto the couch next to his father.

"As if!" Sansa said, and Catelyn listened to the sound of the girl stomping up the staircase. What had happened to the sweet, quiet family she'd had a few years ago?

The telltale rumble of wheels on hardwood signaled that Bran had gotten out of bed, and the bubbling laughter behind him could only be Rickon. After Bran's accident Ricky had been so excited to move into Bran's old upstairs bedroom, but then there was another slight complication that had forced her youngest sons to share Rickon's downstairs.

"Good morning, good sister," Lyanna Stark sang, spinning about to kiss Catelyn on the cheek before grabbing an apple. Ned's little sister was staying with them temporarily until she found a new job...that temporary stay had lasted for nearly ten months now. Catelyn knew the economy wasn't what it was two years ago, it wasn't even what it was ten months ago; but sometimes she just got the feeling that Lyanna wasn't really looking for a job.

"Good morning, Lya. Any plans for today?" Catelyn asked the younger woman. At thirty four, Lyanna was still beautiful - all dark hair and big pale eyes - but regrettably still seemed to believe she was twenty.

"I was thinking I could take Jon, maybe go see old Winterfell castle," she said nonchalantly, leaning back against the counter, "We're descended from the great kings of winter you know, he should know his heritage."

 _Ironic,_ Catelyn thought with a thin smile, and then said, "Just Jon? He and Robb are _twins_ after all, you'd think they would want to go together. Those two have hardly spent a day apart in their lives, and now they're going to be living on opposite ends of the continent."

Lyanna laughed, "Well someone needs to stay back with Ned, that old man can hardly get up the stairs to his bed much less the towers of Winterfell."

"I'm not that old!" Ned shouted from the living room.

"Yeah, Aunt Lya, give him a break!" Robb called, "He's not a decrepit old man yet, just decrepit!" Robb's laughter was cut off with a yelp, she supposed Ned must've hit him though Ned was laughing too. Catelyn tried to giggle with Lyanna, but she had a hard time finding Ned's injury as funny as everyone else did. He'd been on leave from work for far too long.

Having finished packing lunches for her children who were still in school, she stepped out into the living room where three Starks were watching the news. She didn't know what it was about Stark blood, but it did seem to produce politically minded people. Her Ned was senior detective on the Northern Investigative Agency; Lyanna had been on her way to being a senior partner at her law firm before she'd gone and lost her job; and now Robb was talking about studying Political Science though he didn't have a clue what he was going to do with it.

"What's for breakfast?" Bran asked as he rolled past.

"Cereal, I didn't have time to cook this morning," Catelyn said.

"Are there any Frosted Wolves left?" Bran called, rooting through the cabinets next to the oven. Ever since he'd been in a wheelchair, they'd been keeping most of the snack foods and dishes low enough for him to reach.

"There should be! Check the lower shelf!"

Catelyn frowned, thinking. Rickon was already at the table with a bowl of his favorite cereal, she could hear Sansa banging around upstairs, Bran was in the kitchen...she was missing one.

"Has anyone seen Arya?" Catelyn asked.

"Jon took her," Robb replied, "She wanted to get dropped off early, something about lacrosse tryouts?" Catelyn wasn't surprised, Arya had always been the sporty one of the family. Robb and Jon were athletic, and Sansa was a pretty outstanding volleyball player, but Arya was perhaps the most belligerently athletic of her children. The girl had had half a mind to try out for the rugby team at her middle school until Ned put his foot down. So instead she'd stuck to riding her horse, and the fencing classes they'd gotten her for christmas...and now apparently she was going to try lacrosse.

Catelyn glanced at the news screen, where Shae Mooring's voice was laid over a video of dragon's eggs.

" _Starting in two weeks, dragons will be returning to Westeros in the form of fossilized eggs. These eggs are a part of the Old Valyria exhibit coming to Oldtown University's Museum of History."_

Catelyn made a mental note of the exhibit, Bran would be overjoyed to see it when they took Robb down to university. In the meantime, however, she just had to make sure the kids all got to school.

"Sansa!" She called up the stairs, "Sansa, you're going to make your brothers late if you don't hurry!"

"I'm coming!"

* * *

Catelyn frowned, tapping her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as they slowly wound through Historic Winterton. She loved driving beneath the walls of Winterfell, but the cart and pony ahead of her were starting to get on her nerves. Rickon and Bran had seen this a thousand times, they practically lived within walking distance, but still their eyes lit up every time they saw the actors: high ladies in dresses, peasants in homespun, guardsmen in mail, and knights on horseback trotting up and down the lane.

"Did you know that Winterfell was built on top of hot springs? That's why the walls are always warm, even in the winter," Bran said, looking up at the high walls with wonder. The boy had always loved history.

"Everyone knows that Bran, it's like, common knowledge." Sansa wasn't in a particularly good mood this morning.

"Sansa, don't be rude to your brother," Catelyn said, feeling obligated to reprimand her even though really she was just tired, and would like to get back home. Sansa huffed, but quieted, scrolling through some social media app on her phone.

Life would be a good deal easier if all of her children went to the same school, but life just didn't like to be easy. Rickon went to Baelor Academy, a private religious school for gifted children - Robb and Bran had both attended when they were in elementary school. Now Bran went to Bolton Prep, the same high school that Robb had attended. Sansa, who had wanted the public school experience, went to Winterton High; Arya, who was too fidgety to sit for any private school examinations, went to Winterton Middle.

"Margaery Tyrell is having a concert on my nameday," Sansa said just as they broke free of Historic Winterton.

"Is she?" Catelyn asked, stepping on the gas peddle. They had five minutes to get Ricky over to Baelor.

"I was thinking I could go as my present, maybe bring Jeyne?"

"We'll think about it," Catelyn said, turning down Stark Street, "Where is it?"

"Steel Street Entertainment Center, if we hurry and buy tickets now I could be entered to win VIP passes to get backstage. I could meet Margaery herself, Mum, isn't that fantas-"

Catelyn's brow furrowed...Steel Street, "Sansa, Steel Street Entertainment Center is in King's Landing."

"Yeah, I know," Sansa said, brushing her off, "I already found a hotel I could stay at, and-"

"Sansa, you aren't going to King's Landing." Catelyn wouldn't let her go for a lot of reasons, and she certainly wasn't going alone. Even if she did have Jeyne with her, King's Landing was a much bigger city than Winterton - the two of them would get lost or worse. It didn't quite matter though, whether Cat trusted the girls to handle themselves or not, they wouldn't be going.

"Why not?" Sansa asked.

"Is she coming somewhere closer?" Catelyn asked, trying to compromise.

"She's coming to Cerwyn, but that's going to be like two months after my name day. Why can't I go to King's Landing?" Sansa sounded dangerously close to whining.

Catelyn sighed, "We'll talk about it later, Sansa."

"But, why can't-"

"We'll talk about it later!" Catelyn snapped as they pulled up in front of the old stone sept turned school that was Baelor Academy, "Now go help your little brother out of his carseat."

"But Mum -"

"Now, Sansa!" Sansa huffed, unbuckling her seatbelt with sharp, heavy movements. Catelyn sighed as Sansa slammed the car door, this day certainly was starting out well.

* * *

It was those quiet moments that Catelyn enjoyed, laying out on the couch with her head in Ned's lap. She smiled softly as his fingers combed through her hair. Twenty five years she'd known Ned, twenty that they'd been married, and she couldn't say she would rather have had anyone else.

Lyanna had taken Jon out to Winterfell, Robb was visiting Theon, and at the moment they had the house entirely to themselves. Wake up Westeros was nearly over now, and Shae Mooring had gone from talking news to talking about how to pick the best Dornish wine for your summer's end party. The volume had been turned down, this wasn't the part Ned particularly cared for - he'd always preferred WNN, Westeros News Now, the evening program headed up by Barristan Selmy.

"Sansa has it in her mind that she wants to go to King's Landing for her birthday, some big concert for that girl she likes so much," Cat said.

"Margaery Tyrell?" Ned asked.

Cat laughed, "I didn't think you actually knew her name."

"Of course I do, she's everywhere. It's just funny to see Sansa get mad when I get it wrong." Ned chuckled, and she could feel the vibrations in his chest.

He was quiet for a moment, and then said, "She is almost sixteen, it's a special day for her."

"Ned," Cat started, "You know we can't afford that. Between putting Robb and Jon through university, sending Rickon and Bran to private school, paying for that twice damned horse of Arya's, and your medical bills...I just don't see where we have the money for a five hundred dragon plane ticket to King's Landing."

Cat looked up at him, his mouth was drawn in a frown.

"Since when was a plane ticket to King's Landing five hundred dragons?" He asked, though he didn't really seem to expect an answer. After a moment of silence he took a deep breath,"This is about me not working, isn't it?" He asked, and she knew she couldn't lie.

"Yes Ned, this is about you not working." He nodded solemnly, obviously thinking and Catelyn felt a touch of guilt in her stomach though she couldn't quite figure out why she felt guilty, "I know they won't let you come back to work until you've healed...but...have you considered asking about a desk job? Something safer?"

"The protests were a freak -"

"The protests were dangerous, and I know you watch the news enough to know that they aren't going to end there. After what happened you aren't going to be strong enough if you're called back out to keep the peace," Cat said, trying to sound calm and reasonable. She certainly hadn't been calm and reasonable when she'd gotten the call that her husband was in the hospital with a broken leg and a concussion.

"I don't want a desk job," he grumbled.

"It'll be safer, Ned, and gods know it will pay more than -"

She was cut off as his cellphone started to ring, she glanced at the name on the screen: Robert Baratheon.

"I've got to take this," Ned said, standing with a heavy groan. Cat frowned as she saw his weak knee shake a bit. "Hello?" Ned answered the phone.

"Ned!" Cat could hear Robert's roaring voice even as Ned limped out of the room, "Ned how have you been!?"

"My leg was broken," Ned said in a very matter of fact voice as the door to his office closed behind him, and Cat was left alone with Shae Mooring and her Dornish wines. She wasn't alone for long however, because a few minutes later the front door burst open and she was practically assaulted by Robb and Theon's yelling.

Theon and the twins had been friends for years, though he'd been Jon's friend first all three had bonded quickly. He had always reminded Cat a bit of a young Robert Baratheon, dark haired and smiling - even though at the moment Robb looked rather angry.

"Mum! Mum look at this!" Robb said, throwing a paper down on the coffee table in front of her. The headline, _Margaery Tyrell Brings Economic Boost to Cerwyn,_ didn't seem to be of that much importance - a picture of the scantily clad popstar smiling, microphone in hand, took up most of the front page.

"Is this girl all that anyone can talk about?" She asked.

"No! Not - not, just look at page six!" Robb said, throwing his hands up in exasperation. When the boy got going on politics was the only time she would say he resembled his Uncle Brandon.

Catelyn licked her thumb before turning the paper to the sixth page, the largest article was entitled _Too Many Dragons? The Economic Consequences of The Abundance of Gold._ She didn't even get the chance to start reading before Robb was going off again. Theon had taken a seat in the arm chair, watching with an amused grin - Catelyn would bet money that Theon had riled him up even farther just to watch Robb go.

"Eight hundred million! Two years ago there were eight hundred million dragons circulating in Westeros, you know what the number is now? Two point four billion, that's three times as many - the dragon isn't worth half what it was two years ago - the whole bloody economy is being held up on silver, and it's not going to hold forever. Cause you know what?"

"Tell her Robb," Theon said with a hint of laughter under his voice.

"What Robb?" Catelyn asked, feeling rather proud of her son. Robb was a smart boy, passionate; and she had to admit he had a solid point.

"Cause now they've found gold mines in Vale, and at the rate at which it's being sold to the treasury there's going to be another eight hundred million dragons in the market by next year. The dragon will be at a quarter of its strength, no country with half a brain is going to want to trade with us, or let us borrow from them, and you know who's bloody fault this is?"

"Who done it, Robby?" Theon goaded him on.

"It's those fucking -"


	2. Tyrion I

**Second chapter, this one focuses on Tyrion. Sorry for the slow start, I've got to get everyone's plot lines off the ground I guess. Also I apologize that this chapter is really dialogue heavy.**

 **I guess as a note on higher education in Westeros I tried to modify the maester's system of metal links/rings/masks/ etc… as best I could. A chain of a specific metal is equivalent to a bachelor's degree in a given subject, rings are a masters, and the mask is equivalent to a PhD.**

 **Tyrion**

"Lannister! Fucking Lannister!" Contrary to common belief doors aren't soundproof, and glass doors even less so. So, with a deep breath he stopped and turned to read the nameplate on the door of whomever it was that had a bone to pick with him today. _The executive producer, ah, lovely,_ Tyrion thought as he shifted his briefcase to his other hand and pushed the door open.

"You summoned me?" Tyrion asked, a hint of a smugness masked with a polite smile.

Two men turned to look at him: his EP, Oberyn Martell; and a very angry looking Loras Tyrell - corporate was always angry though, so Tyrion discounted the grimace on the pretty boy's face. Loras was standing, shifting back and forth between Oberyn's desk and the small table where his laptop was open to an email.

Tyrion looked to Oberyn, who shook his head as if to say _this is your mess_.

Since everyone had decided to be quiet, Tyrion decided to make himself at home and hopped up into the chair across from Oberyn, pleasantly folding his hands as he waited for Loras to spit it out. Resisting the urge to grin, Tyrion finally spoke himself, "You know, while you're here Loras, I'd like to talk to you about the chairs."

The younger man swallowed, surprise just barely taking over his anger. "What?"

"The chairs, I think they're discriminatory." Out of the corner of his eye he could see Oberyn place his head in his hands, and a smile started to pull its way across Tyrion's lips, "Every day that I come to work I have to scale my way up these ridiculously large chairs; it's embarrassing, frankly. Now I have a very nice chair at home - ergonomic, rolly, when I get bored I like to see how fast I can spin in circles - but I can't drag that on the subway all the way from Visenya's Hill to Rosby I'd simply look ridic-"

"This is not about your tiny chair!" Loras yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at him, "This is about your big mouth!"

"Ah there it is," Tyrion said, finally allowing himself to grin. His mouth was only thing about him that was publicly acknowledged as large, and he was quite proud of it... _well, there's one more thing but it's not exactly public_.

"I'm going to play something for you." Loras pulled up a clip on his laptop, clearly showing Tyrion's face, and hit play. The young man stood back, arms crossed, foot tapping almost incessantly as the video loaded.

" _It's practically common knowledge that t_ _he_ _WNP worships their party leader, Aerys Targaryen. Should, Gods forbid, the constituents oust Baratheon's government in favor of WNP they would be ensuring their rule under a man who at best is a manipulative demagogue. At worst he's a raging madman with less self control than one of those beasts his house loves so much - it's well known what happens to Targaryens when they get old, it's been happening for nearly a millennia now -"_

Loras tapped the spacebar, cutting Tyrion's rant off.

"You can't - you can't just say things like that on air!" Loras yelled, "It was uncalled for, it was insulting, it was completely unnecessary!" Tyrion tried to object, but the Tyrell boy kept going, "You," he pointed at Oberyn, "Are going to have get Shae on air with an apology to the party by tomorrow morning or -"

"No," Oberyn said simply, watching the boy with the cold stare that had earned him the name Red Viper. The Red Viper didn't like being told what to do.

"What do you mean -" Loras spluttered.

"I mean, no." Oberyn stood, "I run a news corporation, not an advertising company. If the WNP wants to run under a vicious, xenophobic, madman then they will have to be prepared to defend him."

"Yes," Loras conceded, "Aerys Targaryen is perhaps too far right, and a bit too racist; but he's the man that thirty percent of the fucking country is supporting. You can't alienate them, we need the numbers; and for Seven's sake you can't insinuate he's suffering from - from _dementia_ without some gods damned evidence! We have a tabloid for that, and I know this is just a morning show, but you're supposed to be serious!"

That hung there for a moment, and Tyrion glanced over at his EP. Oberyn was leaning back against his desk, a tooth digging into his lower lip as he thought hard.

"Well, I didn't quite -" Tyrion started to defend hiimself, but Loras cut him off.

" _Didn't quite_ is too close to _did,_ Lannister. Martell, we want that apology to Mr. Targaryen on air _tomorrow."_ Loras shut his laptop, tossing his stuff in his bag and heading towards the door, "If you pull a stunt like that again Lannister, you're fired."

The office door was falling shut as Tyrion yelled, "Like I won't find another network who wants someone to _make some fucking sense of this shit show of an election!"_ The door clicked shut, leaving the two men in silence. They watched through glass walls as Loras wound between the desks of the newsroom, and disappeared into the elevator. "Put a flower in a suit, and suddenly it thinks it weighs as much as a lion," Tyrion grumbled, "You know I like his sister much better, for all her vapid singing she's a good deal smarter than that prick."

Oberyn let out a deep breath, returning to his chair. Tyrion knew Oberyn was an intelligent man. He had his copper and yellow-gold chains from Sunspear University for history and economics; a ring and mask of steel enameled with gold for westerosi politics at Oldtown University; he'd spent numerous years abroad studying in the Volantene Republic, Asshai, and Braavos; and then had gone on to be Hand to his brother's political career for years...and somehow had ended up taking orders from the halfwits up at corporate in the hell hole that was Broadcast Media Corporation.

"You know I'm right," Tyrion said, and Oberyn nodded.

"You are...but so is he."

"Oh come on, Oberyn. Don't tell me you're going soft on the man cause your sister married his son." Tyrion knew deep down that wasn't it, but he'd always liked pushing the Viper's buttons. He was most honest when he was angry.

"This has nothing to do with Elia and Rhaegar, this has to do with the news!" Oberyn growled, his Dornish accent made even thicker by his frustration, "We can't run up and down the Blackwater screaming for truth and justice, and then go and paint the Stranger's face on an innocent man."

"Aerys is not innoc-"

"Of course he isn't!" Oberyn yelled, slamming his hand on the desk, "But if we can't back up our arguments with more than a six century gone family history of incest -"

"Rhaella is his second cousin -" Tyrion broke in.

"Which is technically legal, even if disgusting; and would put his children under more question than him - but let me finish! If we use logical fallacies while calling Aerys a liar, then we will look like even bigger hypocrites than he is. Start making better arguments, and if you find credible sources that says Aerys is unfit to lead a nation _then_ you can bring it to me. Do you understand?" Oberyn asked, his eyes didn't look cold, they looked like the eyes of the closest thing Tyrion had to a friend.

He took a deep breath, "Do you understand this is Wake up Westeros, not WNN? There are more housewives than -"

"Gods Tyrion, and you wonder why you don't have a girlfriend?" Oberyn laughed, and then with a quick change of Dornish temper yelled, "The housewives are still registered voters you elitist arse! Now, do you understand?"

Tyrion frowned, but Oberyn made a good point, "Yes, I understand."

"Good." Oberyn sighed, looking utterly exhausted, and Tyrion couldn't help but sympathize. Between the two of them they had more degrees than Aerys Targaryen; Robert Baratheon; and that twice damned fool at the head of BMC, Mace Tyrell, combined. Yet here they were, working a show that spent fifteen minutes on the best Dornish wine on a budget. "I was thinking that -"

He was cut off as his phone started ringing, and the Dornishman apologized before quickly answering. Tyrion recognized the soft tone of Doran Martell, and excused himself. All he really wanted was to get back to his apartment in Old King's Landing, take a hot shower, and read for a good long while. Oberyn could catch him up on whatever he'd been thinking later...like tomorrow when they were back at four in the morning again type of later.

Tyrion sighed as Oberyn's office door clicked shut behind him, and glanced around the newsroom. He didn't have to be working here. He could be at any of the biggest think tanks, political campaigns, or law firms he wanted - hells, he had two masks from Oldtown and more than enough credentials to be teaching there. Still, here he was trying to break into journalism of all things - and sometimes he really had to wonder why.

"Mr. Lannister?" Tyrion was caught off guard by the man suddenly standing next to him. No, not man, the boy could hardly be out of college...his attempt at growing a beard was valiant to say the least. He looked familiar, though Tyrion supposed everyone here should be. He'd been at BMC for almost a year now.

"Do I know you?" Tyrion asked.

"My name's Podrick Payne," he extended his hand, "I'm an associate producer for WNN and I -"

Tyrion cut in quickly, trying not to laugh, "Your mother must hate you to give you a name like Podrick." The boy's mouth hung open, not a word coming out, "Silly name regardless, I don't like being lied to boy."

"I wasn't -"

"Associate producers for WNN don't get me coffee; and I'm not good with faces that I don't care about, but I'm pretty sure last week you had my order memorized," Tyrion said.

Podrick took a deep breath, mouth twisted in a grimace as he recited, "Half-caf mocha latté, with soy-milk - not whole milk, not skim milk, _soy milk_ \- and a few dashes of cinnamon and nutmeg. And yes I'm an intern, now could I just ask you -"

Tyrion blinked, thinking hard, "Do I really say it like that?"

Podrick nodded, "Yes, sir, you do. Now could you _please_ answer a couple questions for me. I know I'm just an intern, but I think I found a story that I really want to follow; and if I could just get this then maybe I'll get a real job so I can forget your coffee order."

The boy sounded desperate. Taking a deep breath, Tyrion gestured with two fingers for Podrick to come, "Walk with me. What do you need?"

"Have you heard anything about the New Valyrian Republic recruiting for their military?"

Tyrion scoffed, "The New Valyrian Republic is a bunch of up jump Ghiscari living in ruins, and looking for glory they won't get from rebuilding some lost empire - cause it won't work. Every politician you've heard mention New Valyria is just trying to illicit fear, and assure the voters that _they're_ the ones who'll keep us safe when the dragon comes home." Tyrion hit the down button on the elevator, patiently waiting as he turned to look up at Podrick. "The Valyrians are dead. The dragons are dead; and ever since the slave trade ended, the Ghiscari have been too poor to buy hot air balloons forget warplanes. They're irrelevant."

The elevator dinged, and Tyrion got ready to step in, "If you want something scary, Podrick, look at The New Wolves."

"New Wolves?" Podrick's brow furrowed, "What're the new -"

"Tyrion!" An accented voice called out suddenly across the newsroom, and the little man sighed. He'd been so close. "Tyrion, I need to speak with you."

Tyrion stepped back out of the elevator, gave Pod a smile that looked more like a grimace, and walked back across the newsroom. Shae Mooring was waiting for him, hair neatly curled around her pretty face. He'd always thought Shae was beautiful, not that he'd brought it up - he was a man whore, but he figured sticking his dick into work would likely fuck him up the ass later.

"Yes, Shae?" Tyrion asked, really not looking to get yelled at again today. He'd rather drag his chair on the subway.

"Good job on the show today," she said with a smile, and Tyrion felt entirely dumbfounded.

"What?"

"The show, what you said." An associate producer handed her a stack of papers as he passed, which she took, looking through them as she spoke, "It was brave of you."

"Loras seems to think it was incredibly stupid of me," Tyrion replied.

Shae smiled, "Most brave things are stupid."

Tyrion smiled back, slightly, though it came out more like a grimace. When had he gotten so awkward? He was just about to excuse himself, escape this hell before it could drag him back with fiery tentacles, when she spoke again.

"So what did you think of the rest of the show?" She asked.

"It was nice till around nine o'clock," Tyrion said, some small part of his brain was screaming at his mouth to shut up, but he'd never been good at that, "but it's my personal opinion that Dornish wines are for a summer night with a beautiful woman, not a news broadcast - but if you really must, why did it have to be wine on a budget?"

Shae raised an eyebrow, "Robert Baratheon's government is so rotten it would disintegrate in your hands if you picked it up; half the country is so desperate they would elect a madman who's good with words to replace him, and the other so scared they would elect literally anyone else. The North is on the edge of revolution; across the narrow sea the Dothraki are starving, but so are the kids down the street in Fishmarket; and our economy is about to be crushed under the weight of your father's gold." She looked at him pointedly, "Are you saying that with all this shit, the people don't deserve to know how to get drunk cheap?"

"If you really wanted to get drunk cheap, you should have done a segment on Sothoryon Liquor. Four copper stars for a handle, and it burns like fire."

Shae closed her eyes and shook her head, "I'll see you tomorrow, Tyrion."

His brain was yelling at him to stop as he called after her, "Do you want to go for dinner tonight?"

She didn't look back, "No."

"Tomorrow?" He tried again, walking after her though he wasn't quite sure why.

She turned, "And why would you want to ask me? I _like_ cheap Dornish wine."

His lips pursed as he thought for a witty comeback, "Shortest girl in the office?"

She rolled her eyes, stepped into her office, and closed the door. Tyrion started walking back towards the elevator. There was a handle of Sothoryon Liquor waiting in his cabinet back home, and he had half a mind to call Jaime and get blind drunk at...he glanced at his watch...eleven in the morning.

Just one of those days.


End file.
